How I See Myself
By: Anonymous
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t prepared to see myself in the mirror.
Why was I afraid?
I was afraid to see the damage that I had done to myself. I had been torturing and hating myself so much, to the point I’d grown disgusted to look at my own reflection. I have hated myself for so long; I have no idea when I had even started to.
The feeling of hating yourself is scary, especially when you have to face it alone. You can’t help but hate yourself for all the failures and mistakes that you’d made in your life. You can even hate yourself for something stupid, insignificant. This strong emotion was never about my family or friends. They had nothing to do with it, I always told myself.
I struggled with keeping myself together, trying not to break down in front of anyone.
I would even call myself names. Useless. Loser. I couldn’t help it. I’d tell myself things so horrible that I’d only picture the bravest of hearts dare say them to my face. Why would I do that to myself?
To be honest, I don’t know.
They just happened. I couldn’t tell anyone about myself. Well, it’s more like I don’t want to tell anyone about what I was doing to myself.
Then, one day, I did something bad. I hurt myself.
I thought it’d be good to find peace.
It began with simple pinches on the hand, till the marks turned red whenever I messed up. Then it was biting the inner part of my mouth, especially my tongue, whenever I said something thoughtless or if I accidentally offended someone.
Things took a turn when I began to cut myself. A small blade or use a pen with a sharp point to the arm, cutting through the skin just slightly. I wasn’t going to kill myself, but I felt that I was not worthy to take my own life. When I started, I started small. It then escalated to the point that I would carve words onto my arm. Words like ‘stupid’, ‘useless’, ‘disgusting’ and even ‘die’ was carefully etched on the surface. It was pain I embraced, what I felt I deserved. I had those words on me like tattoos. I would always wear long sleeves, so that no one would see the damage.
But I wasn’t invisible.
It was only time before people started to notice. They’d ask me why I always had long sleeves, or why I looked so pale. Standard response? I was just more comfortable wearing long sleeves, or that I was on my period. No one would question that. The endless cycle of the cutting and the lying kept up for so long, I believed that cutting myself was a routine that I absolutely had to do religiously. The bathroom was best since it was easier to clean up after. I began to love the smell of the metallic blood that dripped off my arms when I carved new words on to my skin.
One day, I forgot to lock the bathroom door. My mother burst into the bathroom as I was carving the ‘die’ onto my arm. The horror in her eyes was something I thought I’d never see. She slapped the blade away from my hand and dragged me outside of the bathroom with my arms still bleeding. Calling for my family to help, they came rushing to her panicked voice, and they saw what I did. Their damaged little girl. I could see that everyone was shocked and horrified to see my bleeding arms. My mother could not stop crying as she read each word that was on my arms. My father held my mother in his arms as he told my brothers to get the emergency kit. My brothers treated my bleeding arms, silent the whole time. When the chaos had settled down, my parents hugged me. They kissed me and told me that they loved me, crying as they helped me. My brothers also joined in, not sparing a single tear as they showered me with love. Everyone was crying. It was a matter of time before I finally broke down too. I cried as I slumped down to the floor. All of us, dam of tears broken, in a moment that felt like time itself had stopped for us.
I finally told them. I told them everything.
My family did not interrupt, listening intently right until the end. I remembered feeling embarrassed. I was afraid they would judge me. I was afraid that my parents would say that they were disappointed in me, and that what I did was stupid and dangerous.
But they didn’t.
No anger, no rage, but just their embrace once again. They told me that they loved me and that they were sad I was destroying myself. My brothers said that family should always help each other and not keep secrets from each other. It was in that moment that I realised - I wasn’t alone. I would never be alone. A massive rush of relief went through me, and I could not had been more grateful. I had people who loved me no matter how many stupid mistakes and failures I had made.
I was loved by the people I loved.
Ever since, I’d been sent to therapy, reluctant at first but persevering for my family. It wasn’t easy to unload the package, for fear the damage was too much to fix, but I had to do it. It was slow and steady. I began feeling better. I did not completely dissolve my self-hatred but I began to learn to accept myself.
I began to accept that no one is perfect and that making mistakes is what literally everyone goes through. I may still have relapses every now and then, but I’ve learned to not hurt myself anymore. My scars began to heal. My skin and my heart were recovering. My family continued to support me and help me however they could. I even told some of my closest friends about my struggles and my scars. My friends also began supporting me emotionally, with absolutely no judgement. The healing process was taking it step-by-step but I appreciated all the help I was given on my recovery.
So, here I was, standing in front of a full-length mirror with my eyes sealed shut. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually wanted to see myself. I had hated myself so much that my reflection was unbearable.
But now this was different.
I wanted to learn to love myself again and look at myself without guilt and distaste.
I took a deep breath and slowly opened my eyes. What I saw was a girl, afraid and pallid, finally allowing herself exposed. She was wearing short sleeves, the marks in plain sight, and upon seeing them, I let myself break. The tears persisted as I fell to the floor, looking again into my reflection, and I finally stopped. I wiped away my salty tears and took a closer look at my arms. The cruelty still there, but the scars fading.
Then I saw her face, my poor reflection’s face. My eyes were still red, my whole face was a mess. Be brave, she mouthed to me, and she wrapped her arms around me in a hug, looking me in the eyes. Breathe in, breathe out, and repeat.
I was not alone in this world. I had people who loved me, and I should help myself for my sake.
Love yourself, I told the girl in the mirror.
This time, I meant it.
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